Becoming A Dancer
by Pepsigirl120
Summary: All Human. No Royce or anything. Set in the present. No Nessie or Jacob. At least not yet. Sometimes OOC.
1. Finding Out

**Disclaimer:I don't own Twilight.**

**This is about Rosalie when she is younger and if she was still human and met Bella, Emmett, Alice, Tanya, and some other people in the Twilight world. She dances. All Human, takes place in California. **

Rosalie Hale glided across the floor of the Emily Young School of Dance and Theater Arts, trying not to cry. Rosalie had been one of Miss Young's star ballet students for nearly eight years now, and she hadn't ever cried in class: Now when she broke a bone in her foot the first time she wore pointe shores; not when Jessica Stanley got the part of the Sugar Plum Fairy in the school recital three years ago and Rosalie had to dance a dumb variation dressed as a cello; not even when she was nine years old and her father died and she had come to her ballet lesson the day after his funeral and the other little girls were afraid to look her in the eye.

No, she hadn't cried in front of Miss Young. Not yet. Jessica Stanley had cried plenty though. Every time the teacher yelled at her, she had squeezed out crocodile tears to get sympathy. And she had cried real tears of joy two years ago when she found she had been accepted at New York City's School of American Ballet. She was just fourteen then, a year younger than Rosalie was now.

At the front of the room Rosalie came off pointe and scurried out of the way of the line of girls crossing the studio in one of the last pointe exercises of the day. Next to an old upright piano, Miss Young sat straight and tall on a high wooden stool and shouted over the roar of a truck downshifting on Main Street.

"Pavlova's bourrees were no louder than a whisper. _Did you hear me? A whisper!_" Rosalie hurried past the dark-haired teacher, but Miss Young seemed to look right through her. Today she had barely said a word to Rosalie. She hadn't even bothered to correct her once. Rosalie headed for the rosin box in the back of the room, her dark blue eyes bright with tears.

She dipped first the right toe of her worn pink satin shoes in the shallow wooden packing crate filled with chunks of sticky resin, then the left. _My whole life's about to fall about and there's nothing I can do to stop it, _she thought. She leaned against the barre and stared out the curtained storefront window onto San Lorenzo's sleepy Main Street.

Today was the end of what Rosalie felt was the worst summer of her life. Six days a week the fifteen-year-old had danced her heart out in the sweltering studio. And six days a week, without fail, Miss Young had singled her out for correction after correction, as if she were the only girl in the crowded room; as if, Rosalie recollected now, she were the worst dancer there.

At first Rosalie had appreciated the attention. After all, to be a dancer, a _great _dancer, was her most cherished dream. It had been her dream since the moment she put on her first pair of pink leather ballet slippers and walked into Hannah Greene's San Lorenzo dance studio when she was seven years old.

Rosalie was old enough now to realize her ambitions meant more than being singled out to give demonstrations and show the other girls how the more difficult combinations were supposed to work. Becoming a ballerina meant working very hard, harder than any of the other students currently in the advanced summer workshop. But Rosalie hadn't minded working hard as long as she knew someday her dream of dancing professionally would come true.

Lately that dream had seemed more like a nightmare. Miss Young hadn't said one positive thing to her all summer. Nothing Rosalie did lately seemed to be right, or good enough, and she had begun to wonder if she should just give up. Perhaps this was her teacher's subtle way of telling her her days as a dancer were over.

Rosalie found Miss Young's silence far worse than her shouted corrections. Today before class had started the teacher had approached Rosalie at the barre and said simply, "I want to see you in my office after class." Rosalie thought she knew what was coming. _She's going to tell me to stop dancing. _The thought had tumbled around in Rosalie's head all morning, blotting out everything else: the heat, the music, the steps, the other girls.

Now class was nearly over and Rosalie mentally prepared herself for the inevitable-the shattering of her dream. She bent over and rested her hot forehead against the worn wooden barre. "She's really going to tell me to stop dancing," Rosalie murmured in a soft, shocked voice.

"What do you mean, stop dancing?" Her best friend, Vera Morely, was standing beside her in the back of the room, wiping the sweat of her freckled face with a shocking-pink towel. The beginning pointe students were still doing steps in groups of two or three across the floor.

Rosalie straightened up and blinked. Vera's puzzled expression came into focus. Rosalie hadn't meant to speak her thoughts out loud. She looked down at the floor, rubbed the toe of one frayed shoe against the top of the other, and gave an embarrassed shrug. "Oh, I don't know exactly." Rosalie's shaky voice betrayed her. To steady herself, she clutched the barre that ran the length of the mirrored room. She worked one ankle round and round in a circle and studied her well-pointed foot closely. Without glancing up, she finally added under her breath, "You know how Young's been treating me. Well, she wants to see me after class in her office."

Vera had been studying with Emily Young almost a long as Rosalie had, but she had no intention of becoming a dancer. She wanted to be a veterinarian, but her mother kept insisting she take all theses lessons: ballet, violin, pottery. Vera hated them. If only there were something else she wanted to do with her life besides dance, she wouldn't feel so terrible now. She squeezed her eyes shut to hold back the tears. When she opened them again, she looked directly at her friend.

"She wants to see you in her office?" Vera's brown eyes widened as Rosalie's news registered. "Whew!" She gave a low, sympathetic whistle and pushed her brown bangs out of her eyes. It was rare for one of the students to get called into Miss Young's office. It usually happened only when they had a serious problem or were hurt. Vera patted Rosalie's arm. "Maybe it's not _bad_ news," she said without much conviction.

On and off all summer Vera and Rosalie had hashed out Miss Young's attitude toward Rosalie. At first they believed the stern, dark-haired teacher was trying to push Rosalie harder. After all, at fifteen a girl with her sights set on a professional dance career was ready for some kind of big move, and in Rosalie's case that meant a move out of the small-town world of San Lorenzo into one of the major big-city ballet schools-a move like the one Jessica had made. First Jessica had gone to New York to study. Now there was a letter from her posted on the dressing room bulletin board: she had been signed on as an apprentice at the New York City Ballet. She was almost two years older than Rosalie and Rosalie was beginning to wonder if she had been passed over. Lately Rosalie had begun to share her doubts with Vera. Maybe with Miss Young was trying to tell her something. Maybe she was built all wrong for dancing. Maybe she just wasn't good enough. Maybe that's why she was still here and Jessica wasn't.

Rosalie's lip began to tremble and she didn't trust her voice. If she said one more word, she'd burst into tears.

"I'll wait for you after class," Vera whispered.

Rosalie nodded and turned her back on her friend. She made a big business of looking into the mirror and tucking a strand of thick, wavy blond hair back into her bun. For a moment she froze, and stared at her reflection as if she were looking at a perfect stranger. As she had a hundred times that summer, she took a hard critical look at her body and wondered if it was the body of a dancer.

Rosalie had filled out a little over the past couple of years. At five foot four, she weighed just one hundred pounds. She was sure she hadn't gotten too fat or too curvy or too tall. Her long legs were strong but shapely and not a muscle bulged anywhere. Her face was pretty in a rosy-cheeked, all-American sort of way: She had uncommonly large and round blue eyes and her fair skin tanned easily beneath the California sun. At least she wasn't the kind of blond who looked washed out on stage. No, she thought objectively, she _looked_ good enough to be a dancer.

"Hale! Are you going to stand there admiring yourself all day?" Miss Young's voice was harsh and Rosalie jumped. Victoria Dickinson and Bree Tanner started giggling. Rosalie blushed, then drew herself up very tall and pretended to ignore them. She stepped into her accustomed position at the head of the class. She sensed Vera falling into place behind her. "What are we doing?" Rosalie whispered through clenched teeth without turning around. She hadn't been paying attention. She had no idea what step was next.

"Four chaines, four piques," Vera prompted in a whisper. "Or maybe it was the other way around," she said uncertainly.

Rosalie nodded. She could figure it out. As the tinny strains of Tchaikovsky crackled out of the small tape recorder on the piano, she pointed her right foot in preparation. Just hearing _Swan Lake_ did something to Rosalie. This might be the last moment of the lass ballet class she'd ever take, and though she was aching to shout and scream and cry, she was determined to make this last dance her best. She wanted to show Miss Young just how good she really was. _She'll be sorry, _Rosalie thought, taking several quick gulps of dry air and stifling the urge to cry. Pique and chaine turns were something she was very good at. She forced everything out of her mind and abandoned herself to the fiery rhythm of the music.

She waited two measures, then sprang strongly onto her right toe. She spun around quickly like a top: one, two, three, four times. In spite of her mood, a joyous smile came to her lips as she sped across the floor. For a moment Rosalie forgot about crying and Miss Young, and the dreadful interview looming ahead, and just danced. With every step Rosalie took she felt more buoyant, as if she were made of light and air, not sweaty flesh and blood.

Ten minutes later Rosalie walked into the office and wanted to die on the spot. Miss Young stood in the corner of the cramped, cluttered room with her back to Rosalie. But Rosalie didn't have to see her teacher's face to know this wasn't going to be a friendly rap session. The ex-ballerina's body language gave her away: her long back was tense, her shoulders hunched up. The way she was standing spoke louder than any words: whatever Emily Young had to say to Rosalie, it was bad news.

Rosalie rested one hand on the back of a chair and whispered, "Miss Young? I'm here." Her voice was almost swallowed up the by the drone of an ancient air conditioner.

"Sit down." Without bothering to turn around, Emily Young gestured to the chair. She shifted a pile of records from one side of the desk to the other.

Rosalie obediently sank down into the roomy leather chair. Out of habit she tugged on her leg warmers and draped a sweater over her shoulders.

Sitting in air-conditioning after such an intense workout was bad for her muscles. Rosalie wondered vaguely why she still cared. Behind her the high, childish voices of the eight- and nine-year-olds filled the studio. Beginner class was about to start. Rosalie shifted restlessly in her seat. Inwardly she pleaded for her teacher to be quick and get the whole awful mess over with. To get her attention, Rosalie cleared her throat.

Miss Young walked behind Rosalie and closed the office door, abruptly shutting out the warmth and the sound of the children coming from the sunny studio. The tiny office seemed very dim by comparison, and icy cold. Rosalie pulled her sweater more tightly around her shoulders, and knotted the sleeves together in the front, glad to have something to do with her hands.

Pushing aside a half-sewn red tutu, Emily Young finally turned around. She perched herself on the edge of the desk and picked up a container of cold coffee. She took a sip before looking directly at Rosalie. When she finally met Rosalie's frightened glance, her dark eyes softened.

"Remember my friend Leah Clearwater and her partner Seth Clearwater?"

Rosalie nodded. "You mean the two Bay Area Ballet soloists who came to our recital last May?" she asked in a puzzled voice.

"Yes." Miss Young took a deep breath. She looked down at her long slender hands and twirled the narrow gold wedding band she wore on her left ring finger. She gnawed her lip and seemed lost in thought. Rosalie felt as if she were about to burst. Why didn't Miss Young just come out and tell her to quit dancing? She'd rather hear the bad news all at once than have her teacher beat around the bush like this. She clutched the arms of her chair very tightly and had just mustered up the courage to say that, when Miss Young continued. "Yes, they came to our recital and they liked it very much." She stood up and tugged down the back of the short black ballet skirt she wore for teaching. She walked over to the narrow window that looked out over the dirty backyard and peered through the cracked pane. After an excruciating moment she turned around. Her arms were folded across her chest. Though she was smiling, she still looked sad.

"They were very impressed with the concert. Particularly you, Rosalie."

"They were?" Rosalie gulped. For a moment she actually felt dizzy with relief. A faint ray of hope stirred inside her.

Miss Young reached up over the window and flicked off the air conditioner. The room settled into silence. "It's too cold in here," she said absently, pulling a black shawl off the coat rack. She shrugged it around her narrow shoulders and went on.

"The point is, I invited them to the concert to get a strong second opinion-about you and your future. I had thought of waiting until January for this, but they were impressed enough to suggest that you go up to audition for entrance to the San Francisco Ballet Academy this fall."

"Audition?" Rosalie repeated incredulously. "You mean-you-they-think I could get into the Academy? This fall?" Her hands started shaking. She clasped them together and willed her heart to stop pounding. A second ago she had been sure her dream of being a dancer was dashed, over before she'd even gotten a chance to prove herself. Now she was about to be given the opportunity to try out for one of the top schools in the country, a school whose graduates almost always moved on into other respected ballet companies, if not the Bay Area Ballet itself. Rosalie suddenly didn't know if she was going to burst into laughter or tears.

"I think you stand a good chance of getting into the school. So does Leah. They usually take only ten new girls at a time, but this year they have room for fifteen."

"Out of how many?" Rosalie asked.

"Over a hundred," Miss Young replied.

Rosalie's eyes grew big. "A hundred?" she repeated in astonishment. "Oh, Miss Young," she said shaking her head back and forth. "Why would anyone pick me out of a hundred other girls?"

"Because you're gifted," Miss Young responded instantly.

Rosalie blushed, feeling awkward in the face of such a direct compliment. Until this summer Miss Young had always treated her as if she were special, but she had never said as much before. Rosalie felt incredibly happy and very proud.

Miss Young continued, a warning note in her voice. "But as we all know, being gifted isn't always enough." After a pause she asked, "So, do you want to go ahead with it?"

Rosalie stared at her teacher in disbelief. "Do I _want_ to audition?" She started to laugh. "Are you kidding?" She sprang to her feet and threw her arms around her teacher's neck. "Oh, Miss Young, I want to audition and go to that school more than anything in the world."

Emily returned her hug warmly, then pushed her away, holding her at arm's length. Her own eyes filled as she said, "You've grown so much over the past few months. It's hard to believe you once one of those babies out there." She gestured with her head toward the studio. "You are beginning to look like a real ballerina, Rosalie." She gazed at Rosalie a long moment. "I hate to lose you," she said wistfully, "but I'm afraid if you're to seriously consider a dance career, it's time for you to move on. I've taught you all I can here."

Emily gave her head an annoyed shake. "Listen to me," the tight-lipped teacher said, suddenly embarrassed by her display of emotion. She dropped her hands from Rosalie's shoulders and continued brusquely. "Well, you'll have little enough to hug me about between now and next weekend. You're not going to love me once we start work on your audition program."

"_Next weekend!_" Rosalie shrieked. Her hands flew up to her head and she shook it back and forth trying to make the words she just heard go away. "You can't mean that. The audition isn't next weekend."

Miss Young nodded. "It is. School starts in two weeks. The Ballet Academy operates on the usual school year schedule. If you get in, you'll have a couple of days to come back here and pack your clothes before going back to begin classes."

"But-" Rosalie paced over to the window and back again. She looked at Miss Young with wide and frightened eyes. "I-I'm not ready. I mean, what do I have to do to audition?" she asked, sitting in the chair with a defeated thump.

"Take a class, then do a variation. That's all." Miss Young struggled to keep a smile off her face. "You're ready for the class. I've been giving you the same level class you'll take from Madame Newton. for the audition. And you can do the same variation from _Sleeping Beauty_ you did at the recital."

Rosalie stared at her teacher and slowly a look of understanding crossed her face. "That's why you yelled at me all summer, isn't it? You were trying to get me ready for this." Rosalie suddenly felt awful for all the terrible things she had thought about Miss Young, when all along her beloved teacher had only been trying to help her, prepare her for the future of her dreams. "I thought you were going to tell me I shouldn't dance anymore."

A pained expression crossed the teacher's high cheek-boned face. "I'm sorry I gave you that idea," she said. "I knew I was upsetting you, that I was pushing you very, very hard. It must have seemed unfair at times..."

Rosalie shifted uncomfortably as her teacher went on.

"But I had to see how exactly how far you could come in a couple of short months. To see if you were really ready-technically and psychologically."

"But Jessica was ready a whole year before me!" Rosalie burst out, then instantly wanted to take back her words. It sounded so petty, so silly, envying Jessica, now that her own chance had come.

"Jessica's different from you. She's the perfect type of dancer for the New York City Ballet, a real Balanchine dancer if I've ever seen one. But she's not as classical as-" Miss Young broke off and resumed in a sterner tone. "Jessica is none of your business right now. No other dancer is. Do you hear me? All you have to pay attention to this next week is your own dancing. And when you get to those auditions, I want you to remember that. No one, nothing else will exist for you. No matter what happens."

Rosalie had never heard Miss Young sound so fierce before. She nodded in agreement even though she wasn't sure she understood.

Miss Young sighed again and began gathering some papers off her desk. "But I'm sorry if I undermined your confidence." She sounded worried. "I just want you to realize that the Academy is a very competitive place. If you do get in, this summer's classes are going to seem like child's play. I'm not half as demanding as Amanda Newton." Miss Young gripped Rosalie's shoulder firmly and said in a clear no-nonsense voice, "But I never meant to have you doubt your ability to dance. You _are_ a born dancer, Rosalie. And no matter what happens to you, never, ever doubt that one minute."

Her hand dropped from Rosalie's shoulder, and she glanced over at the wall. Rosalie followed her gaze. Her eyes rested on the framed photo of Miss Young dancing the bluebird with a famous male dancer. The picture was over twenty years old now, and Emily Young had left American Ballet Theatre shortly after the photo was taken. An injury, followed the desire to have children, had shortened her promising career. Rosalie had always wondered if Miss Young regretted her decision to marry, have a family, and move to this dry, dusty California town, where her husband owned a prosperous artichoke farm. Teaching local kids ballet, tap, and drama seemed a far cry from dancing on the stage at New York's Metropolitan Opera House. It was a decision Rosalie knew in her heart she would never have made.

Miss Young cleared her throat and continued. "The dance world is a very difficult one. Talent counts for a lot. Don't get me wrong. But at your audition there will be plenty of girls just as good as you. I think you'll make it, but you may not."

Rosalie's high forehead creased in a frown. The possibility of not getting in was too awful to think about.

"But if you do make the Academy, and graduate, you'll be lucky if you get into the corps of a regional company. And luckier still if you ever get to dance a solo role, let alone a lead."

Rosalie's face fell. The teacher reached out and affectionately tucked a stray wisp of blond hair behind Rosalie's ear. "But listen to me, Rosalie. Even dancing in a corps in a drafty school auditorium in the middle of Alaska is worth everything. It's the chance to preform and share your gift with people who love the beauty of the dance. So you see, if you don't believe it is worth it, then you should stop dancing now."

"Nothing could make me stop dancing now!" Rosalie responded vehemently.

Miss Young smiled. "I know, Rosalie." She checked her watch. "Well, you may not be willing to stop dancing, but I have to get those kids out there started." She grabbed a tape from her desk, and added, "So we start tomorrow. I want to see you here at ten A.M. We'll work out a detailed schedule of rehearsals then, but be prepared to work into the evening at least a couple of nights. I want you to talk to your mother tonight and get her okay. Here are the particulars about the school." She handed Rosalie a catalog and a batch of forms.

"Oh, she'll say okay," Rosalie declared, knowing nothing in the world could keep her from the audition.


	2. Fights

**A/N: I hope you liked this so far! Here's the next chapter!**

"It's a boarding school?" Vera jerked with surprise and the top scoop of her ice cream cone teetered dangerously. She poked it securely back in place, licked her finger, then wiped her hand on the bright green sod surrounding Sneaky Pete's parking lot. On a far corner of the lawn the sprinklers made a slow swooshing noise, and drops of water fell to the ground glistening like jewels in the afternoon sun. Vera and Rosalie had headed directly from the dance class to San Lorenzo's popular hangout to celebrate Rosalie's big news.

Rosalie rolled her eyes at Vera's question. "Dumb, Morely. You're really dumb!" Rosalie paused to lick the edge of her frozen fruit bar, then let out a patient sigh. Sometimes her best friend's ignorance of dance matters was astounding. "For someone who's been studying ballet almost as long as I have, you don't know a thing."

"Tell my mother that!" Vera groaned, brushing crumbs from her cone off her white shorts. "Maybe she'll finally let me stop dancing. I've been studying nearly eight years, just like you, and I'm still not graceful. And I still hate ballet with a passion. Give dogs, horses, cats, cows, the great outdoors," she said with an empathetic toss of her red braid. "I'm just not the indoor, cultured type. You know that. My problem is my mother doesn't."

Rosalie tilted her head back and laughed. The sun was bright in her eyes and she pulled down the sunglasses perched on top of her head and looked at her old friend with affection. "I'm really going to miss you, Vera!" she blurted out. She and Vera had been best friends since they were in first grade and had walked home together every day after school. Sometimes Rosalie was amazed they were still friends because they were so incredibly different. Vera was large-boned and clumsy. She wore thick glasses was very knowledgeable about snakes, lizards, turtles, and other assorted wildlife. She was also a straight-A student. Rosalie wasn't any of those things and had always been glad to have Vera around to help her with homework and to explain exactly what made grass green and what caused rain. Rosalie helped Vera, too, with her dance classes and art projects and all the things Vera never had a knack for.

Rosalie could barely remember a time in her life when Vera hadn't been around to confide in. Vera was the one person who knew how awful Rosalie had felt when Jessica had been chosen to audition two years ago and she hadn't. That's why Rosalie wished Vera looked a little more excited about her news. She leaned back on one arm and repeated thoughtfully, "Yes, I really am going to miss you."

"Oh, you'll be too busy dancing and becoming a star to remember your old friends," Vera said with an exaggerated sniff. "I can see the headlines in the San Lorenzo _Banner_ now-HOMETOWN GIRL MAKES GOOD: DEBUTS WITH BARYSHINIKOV AT WAR MEMORIAL OPERA HOUSE."

Rosalie tossed a handful of grass at Vera. "Don't be such a jerk! Things like that don't happen in real life," she chided, but her heart skipped a beat. Could something so wild and wonderful actually happen to her in the not-too-distant future?

Vera tossed some of the grass back at Rosalie and shrugged. "Well, even if you don't run off and become an overnight dance phenomenon, I know how things are in boarding school." Vera kicked off her sandals and wriggled her pale toes in the grass. She stared sullenly at her feet and continued. "Everyone gets really tight with each other. You'll have a million new friends in a week. Just you watch. You'll forget all about your poor buddies back home in no time."

Rosalie knit her brow and stared out across the highway into the horizon. The fog was rolling in from the coast and the sky over the western hills was pale and hazy. "I'm not going to forget my friends," Rosalie stated empathetically. "Besides, it's not exactly a boarding school. We don't live on the grounds of the place. Academy students are placed with host families or in approved boarding houses."

Vera sat up straight and looked right into Rosalie's eyes. "You know what this all means, don't you?" she said in an ominous tone.

Rosalie shook her head, not quite sure she wanted to hear Vera's revelation.

"You're really leaving San Lorenzo." Vera paused for effect. She twirled one loose strand of red hair around her finger and continued slowly, emphasizing every word. "You are going to leave and never come back again."

"Come off it!" Rosalie dismissed Vera's prediction with a wave of her hand. "I haven't even gotten into the school yet. Don't forget, I've got to go up against a hundred other girls in an audition."

Vera laughed off Rosalie's fears. "You'll get in. You're the best student Miss Young's ever had. And don't start talking about Jessica Stanley." Vera cut off Rosalie's protest before Rosalie had a chance to open her mouth. "She didn't hold a candle to you and she got into a school. So you will too. But the point is, you're going to go to San Francisco, study there a couple of years, try out for a company, and be whisked away to who knows where. New York, Montreal, maybe even London or Paris. After this week I'll never see you again." Vera concluded in a tragic voice. She sighed, and flopped over on her stomach and stared forlornly at the ground.

Rosalie was speechless. So far Vera's reaction to her news hadn't been at all what she'd expected. Vera was supposed to be happy for her and here she was looking positively glum.

"Vera," Rosalie said, "I get the impression you don't think my going to the Academy is such a great thing."

Vera gulped. "Oh, I do, I do. I mean, it's great." She paused, then added dramatically. "For you! But what about me? What about high school? Leaving San Lorenzo means we won't be in high school together."

"You? High School?" Rosalie started to laugh, but the deepening gloom on Vera's face stopped her and made her feel uncomfortable. Rosalie hopped to her feet and aimed the remains of her fruit bar toward the trash can. It fell woefully short. She jogged over to pick it up and toss it in. She quickly counted to ten before heading back to Vera. Sometimes her best friend was really exasperating. Rosalie hoisted the straps of her purple overalls back up on her shoulders and looked down at Vera.

"I don't see what my going to San Francisco has to do with you," she said, stuffing her hands into her pockets and rocking back and forth on her heels. If getting into a school connected with a major company was the first step on the ladder to success, nothing else should matter. This was the best thing that had ever happened to Rosalie, and Vera didn't seem to be the least bit excited for her. If something equally good happened to Vera, Rosalie was certain she'd be overjoyed.

"I said I was going to miss you. And no matter what, we'll still be best friends," Rosalie asserted testily. "Why should the school I go to change that?"

Vera crossed her legs in an awkward lotus position and propped her chin on her hands. She stared at Rosalie skeptically for a minute. "I guess I was really looking forward to going to San Lorenzo High together. You know, the dances, the ball games, the parties. Meeting guys, all that normal everyday high school stuff."

Rosalie didn't know how to respond. Of course going off to the San Francisco Ballet Academy wasn't something every high school kid would do. But Rosalie wasn't every high school kid. She was a dancer and all she had ever wanted was to dance. When she danced she felt as if she were part of something bigger than herself, something very special that had existed for a long, long time. Just hearing the opening strains of any of the famous classical ballet pas de duex sent chills down her spine. Someday she'd be standing backstage in the wings listening to the overture, nervous, frightened, waiting for the curtain to rise and the ballet to begin. That was the world Rosalie dreamed of. If she could someday dance in _Sleeping Beauty_- even in the corps-missing out on normal high school life would be worth it.

But Vera didn't seem to understand that. No one Rosalie knew in San Lorenzo did, except Miss Young, and Miss Young was sending her away to the world where she belonged.

Rosalie looked at Vera and suddenly felt let down. "I didn't think being best friends meant we had a contract to go to high school together," she said irritably. "We could have been assigned to different school districts. Everyone two blocks south of us is going to Gilroy Central High." She stopped and kicked her pink Reeboks against the trunk of a low, sprawling oak tree. She reached up and dangled from one of its dark branches. "Friendship has to survive lots of ups and downs," she said more to herself than Vera.

Vera looked at her coldly and said, "I'm not sure you know anything about being friends, Rosalie."

Rosalie let go of the branch and dropped to the ground.

"What are you talking about?"

Vera shrugged and began gathering up her things. "I think all you care about is dancing. No, not just dancing-_your_ dancing."

"I don't believe you, Vera. Just because I'm not going to the same high school as you, you're telling me I'm self-centered, that I don't know how to be a friend. Well, I've always wanted to dance. You know that. I don't know why my going away should make me any less of a friend." She had to control herself to keep from shouting. How could her best friend in the world not understand that she was being given the chance of a lifetime? She couldn't stick around just so they could experience high school together.

Vera was right. All that mattered _was _her dancing. She looked at her friend, and wondered if she could ever understand that.

"Well, dancing isn't the only thing in the world, you know," Vera went on. "People are important too. People-like your friends, like _me._" She thumped her chest for emphasis.

"I know that." Rosalie paced over to the curb and back again. She was beginning to wish she didn't have to wait for Vera's mother to give them a ride home.

"But you act like all that matter is your dancing." Vera pursued the argument. "You've always been that way, I guess," she added sadly. "I just never realized it bothered me until now." Vera looked from Rosalie in the parking lot to Sneaky Pete's takeout stand. She let out a loud sigh and said in a shrill voice, "What if you don't get in, Rosalie? What are you going to do then? Have you thought about that? What if you don't make it as a dancer, what happens next? What if you come back here after a year or two, and have no friends left?"

"I thought you said you believed in me," Rosalie said with a gasp.

"I do. I believe in you as a dancer." Vera shook her head in disgust. "But I'm not sure I believe in you as a friend anymore."

"Just because I'm going away to school?" Rosalie cried. She picked up her dance bag and slung it over her shoulder. Her voice trembled as she went on, "I know what's wrong with you, Vera. You're jealous." Rosalie accused suddenly. "I bet you-and half the other kids I know-would give their right arm to have a chance to go off and make a dream come true the way I do." Rosalie's voice rose a decibel with every word. Slowly an idea took shape in her mind. "You know what else?" she said in a low voice, and tapped Vera's finger.

Vera took a couple of steps backward, out of arm's reach.

"I think," Rosalie fumed, her eyes flashing fire, "that you wish you half the dancer I am, that you wish you were in my shoes right now. Maybe I'll really get the chance to study with some guy as great as Baryshnikov someday. All you can do is dream about it." Rosalie planted her hands on her hips and stared at her friend. Vera shrank back farther. "And you say I'm the one who's not a good friend. A good friend cheers her friend on when something good happens."

"That's not fair!" Vera cried, shocked at Rosalie's outburst. Her usually pale face was beet-red now, and her eyes brimmed with tears. "That's just not fair. But if that's how you feel about, then I guess this is one friendship I'm glad is over."

The honk of a horn cut Vera off.

With her head held high Rosalie marched toward the Morelys' rusty station wagon. As she approached the car she quickly rubbed her arm across her face, wiping away the tears that were beginning to spill out of her eyes. She put on what Miss Young had always called her best ballerina smile. "Hi, Mrs. Morely. I really appreciate the ride," she said, climbing into the back seat. She pushed down the door lock with an empathetic gesture as Vera hurried up behind her.

Vera flung open the front door and slipped in beside her mother. She pulled off her glasses and cleaned them on the front of her T-shirt, never once turning around to look back at her friend.

**A/N: So what do you think? Like it? Review please! Next Chapter up soon!**


	3. Are you prepared to fail?

The night wind had picked up and the blue curtains fluttered out from the wide open window of Rosalie's ground floor bedroom.

She knelt on the floor in front of her dresser sobbing over her fight with Vera. They had fought lots before, but not like this. Rosalie was half listening for the phone to ring, but she knew it wouldn't. Vera never made up first. She was too stubborn, and Rosalie was still too angry to call Vera herself and say she was sorry. Anyway, she wasn't sorry. Vera had betrayed her. She had pretended all along she had believed in Rosalie's dream. Now it turned out she thought Rosalie's dreams were just that, dreams that disappeared the minute you woke up-or grew up. Rosalie wasn't sure she could forgive her for that.

Sniffing back her tears, she energetically began to sort out her tights and leotards into three different piles: too far gone to be mended, mendable, good enough to bring to San Francisco for the audition. The audition pile was woefully small. For a moment she envied the other girls she knew, working summer jobs at the nearby Mission Canyon Mall. She was too busy dancing to ever have the time to earn her own spending money. Asking her mother for unnecessary dance clothes right now seemed wrong.

If she ended up actually going to SFBA, her tuition was going to be high, and although her mother could probably afford to send her, Rosalie knew she'd quietly cut some corners to do so. Of course her mother didn't know about her audition yet.

Rosalie sat back on her heels and squinted out the window into the dark. She listened to the chirping of what sounded like thousands of crickets and smiled at the sound of Pavlova, the family dog, snuffling her way through some leaves in the front yard. Her mother's car was no where in sight.

Rosalie glanced at the big blue plastic clock on her wall: nine-fifteen. The message on the answering machine said her mother wouldn't be home from work until close to ten.

Rosalie curled her bare toes in the thick blue-and-purple shag rug and inhaled sharply. The dry scent of eucalyptus and oranges from the yard filled her lungs.

She closed her eyes and lifted her hair off the nape of her neck. She was wearing it down and it fell thick and wavy almost to her waist. A cool breeze floated over her shoulders.

A sudden pang of homesickness swept over her. What was wrong with her? She hadn't even left home yet, but she couldn't help thinking she was going to feel very alone without Vera, Miss Young, without her mom.

She'd been to San Francisco a couple of times on school trips and liked it. But it was always foggy, and the air there was damp and smelled of the sea, more like down by Carmel or Monterey. Here in the inland valley everything was clear and dry. You could see for miles, and summer nights, no matter how hot the days, the temperature dropped until it was almost cold.

The air was so pure the stars barely twinkled and they seemed so close Rosalie often felt like she could reach up and touch them. When shew as a little girl she'd lie in her bed and look out her window at the swirling stars and fall asleep dreaming they were dancers wearing sparkly tutus, and shew as dancing with them.

Pavlova suddenly let out an enormous woof. Rosalie sprang to her feet. A moment later headlights beamed down the long driveway and against her wall.

"Mom! You're home!" Rosalie cried, tearing down the hall and out the kitchen door barefoot onto the grass.

"Down Pavlova! Down girl!" she ordered as the huge pale mastiff made a beeline for her across the lawn.

The big dog ran excited circles around Rosalie, then raced back to the driveway jumping and whining for glee as Nicole Hale slammed the door to the Subaru and walked slowly toward the house, one arm full of groceries, the other holding the straw carryall that served as her briefcase.

Rosalie held open the door and her mother entered the kitchen. She turned around and faced her daughter. The warm welcoming smile on her face turned to a frown of concern.

"Rosalie, dear, you've been crying." She reached up to touch Rosalie's tearstained cheek. "What happened?"

Rosalie stepped back, confused. She had forgotten to wash off her face. "Nothing," she stated, suddenly feeling embarrassed about Vera. But her news was too big to think of Vera very long. Her mouth quickly widened into a huge smile.

"Oh, Mom! _Everything_! Everything's happened!" She gleefully bit her lip, took the groceries from her mother's arms, and set the brown bag on the counter.

She reached for her mother's hand and pulled her gently toward the family room that opened out from the brightly decorated kitchen.

"What's going on?" Mrs. Hale pretended to protest.

She started laughing and her laughter filled the quiet house like music. "_Rosalie_!" she cried as her daughter whisked a sleepy kitten off the sofa and pushed her mother down into the soft cushions.

"Misha! You're supposed to sleep in the basket, not on the sofa." Rosalie gently scolded the little striped orange cat and deposited him on the rug.

"Rosalie, you'd better tell me what this is all about." Mrs. Hale eyed her daughter suspiciously.

Rosalie ignored her mother's comment and headed for the kitchen. "Are you tired? Do you want some tea?"

"No." Nicole Hale folded her hands firmly in her lap and studied Rosalie carefully. She was as tan as Rosalie was fair. Rosalie had inherited her father's coloring, but her mother's small slender build, delicate features, and beautifully sculpted face.

"Are you going to let me in on your secret now?" Mrs. Hale asked before Rosalie could leave the room.

Rosalie turned around in the doorway and shifted from one foot to the other, trying to figure out how to begin.

"I-well, in class today-oh, Mom." she finally cried sinking to the floor at her mother's feet. She grabbed her mother's hands and looked up into her face with shining eyes.

"I'm going to San Francisco to audition for the San Francisco Ballet Academy. Miss Young's going to send me. She says I have a good chance of getting in." Rosalie kept her eyes on her mother's the time she spoke and strung her words together quickly.

When she paused, the expression on her mother's face made her heart stop.

"Mom?" Rosalie said in a frightened voice.

Still holding her hands, she got up and plopped down next to her on the sofa.

Nicole Hale sat still as a stone. The color had drained from her face and her eyes were closed.

Finally she patted Rosalie's hand and said in a quiet, tired voice. "I think I'll have that tea now."

Rosalie got up slowly, afraid to say a word. On the way to the kitchen she repeated over and over like a prayer in her head, "Please let her say yes. Please let her say I can go."

Only after she poured the tea did she realize she had used the lumpy brown glazed mug Vera had made and given her mom for Christmas.

And then she realized that she hadn't _asked_ her mother a thing. She had just _told_ her she was going to San Francisco.

When she carried the steamy mug of tea back into the family room, her mother looked normal again .She was holding Misha on her lap and was stroking him. Rosalie could hear the cat purring.

"Why don't we start at the beginning," Mrs. Hale said with a brave smile. "What is this about going up to San Francisco? How, where, when? You know, all those unimportant little details."

Rosalie relaxed a little. Her mother sounded more like her efficient business self. She pulled up the old rocking chair and curled her legs beneath her. She tugged her blue cotton nightgown over her toes and told her mother about her talk with Miss Young and what she had learned about the school.

She ended with, "And Miss Young told me that if I want to dance professionally, I have to go now, to someplace bigger than San Lorenzo. I guess this is my big chance.

Rosalie's voice dropped very low. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the creak of Rosalie's rocking chair. Misha gave a tiny mew and awkwardly leaped from her mother's lap to Rosalie's.

"She's right." Mrs. Hale said, her voice sounding more like a sigh.

She got up and carried her mug of tea to the window. Idly she picked the dead blossoms of a potted plant. She kept her back to Rosalie as she went on.

"I feel you do have to move on. San Lorenzo's a pretty small town and you're too talented to stay here. I've always known that someday you would have to leave" she turned around and faced Rosalie.

A sad smile worked its way across her lips. "I just hadn't thought it would be so soon. I guess I didn't realize how you've grown. That in some ways you're already all grown up." Tears shown in her eyes.

Rosalie sprang to her feet and hurried to her mother's side. "Oh, Mom, I really love you."

She threw her arms around her mother and hugged her tight. At that moment Rosalie only wished there were some way to make her dream come true without leaving her mother and San Lorenzo.

"I love you too, Rosalie. That's why this is so hard." Nicole stroked Rosalie's head and began to weep openly.

Rosalie started crying too. For a few minutes they just held each other and rocked back and forth in front of the wide picture window. They hadn't cried together like this since Rosalie's father had died, and the memory made her cry harder now.

Finally her tears subsided. She swallowed the lump in her throat and looked up at her mother. "Can I go, then?"

Her mother smiled through her tears. "Of course, dear. It'll be lonely without you here, but I'll manage."

"I'm going to miss you, Mom."

"Yes, well, missing each other is the bad part of it, isn't it? But it can't be helped. I'm glad I don't have a daughter who's just dying to run away and leave home."

Mrs. Hale sat down in a chair and looked around the room. She reached for a tissue and blew her nose. Her eyes rested on the framed photograph of Rosalie's dad.

"Your father would have wanted you to go, Rosalie. He believed you were born to do something special with your life. I'm sure he'd send you off to San Francisco quite happily if that's what it takes for you to be a professional dancer." Her voice was surprisingly steady. "We talked about it once."

"But I was just a kid. I had just started dancing seriously when Dad—died." Rosalie still found the word hard to say.

"You were talented even then. Miss Young told us that if you worked hard, you could probably have a very promising future in dance. Your father was proud of you for that. Like I am." Mrs. Hale reached out and tousled Rosalie's tangled hair.

"But, Rosalie," a cautious note entered her mother's voice, "I hate to bring up unpleasant subjects."

"You mean the money," Rosalie jumped in. "there are scholarships. I read the brochure."

Mrs. Hale laughed. "That's good news, but I'm afraid my business has been doing a bit too well to put you in the needy-student category. The way things are going around here makes me wonder what all these farmers did before computers. I have more consulting than I can tackle these days. No, money isn't the unpleasant subject."

Rosalie frowned, unable to fathom what was to come next.

"What if you don't get in, Rosalie? Can you face that? Are you prepared to fail?

Rosalie's mouth fell open in surprise. "Mom, you don't think I'll fail, do you?" Suddenly all her newfound confidence vanished. Vera not believing in her was one thing, but her _mom_ too?

Mrs. Hale let out another peal of laughter. "No, I don't think you are going to fail, but when you try out for something like this, it's like-" she searched for the right image. "It's like putting a bit of yourself out there for public inspection. And some of the public may not like what they see no matter how good it is."

Her mother's meaning began to dawn on Rosalie. "You mean, do I think I'm good enough no matter what anyone else thinks?" Rosalie asked. "And I will keep on dancing no matter what anyone says?" 

Her mother nodded.

Rosalie sat very still and studied her hands. When she finally looked up at her mother, she admitted with a sigh, "I don't know, Mom. I guess I'll find out about that, but right now I don't think anything in the world can keep me from dancing. Nothing!" she concluded with a force that surprised her.

"I don't think so, either." her mother stated firmly. "And I'm glad you feel that way, because to pursue a career in dance you'll have to give up a lot: the fun of high school life, the dances, the parties, time with your friends."

"I never just hang out with my friends anyway," Rosalie remonstrated hotly. "And I _hate_ doing nothing!" she continued, giving a distasteful little shiver.

Sitting still too long, reading or talking, had always driven her crazy. It was her passion for movement that had led her parents to start her at pre-dance at a community center when she was just four.

"If I can dance someday with a company, even in the corps," Rosalie declared passionately, "Then whatever I'm missing now will be worth it."

That night Rosalie crept into bed too exhausted to sleep. Her legs ached from class, she had a blister on her right toe. Her mind was racing and she had a strange hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. Somehow, alone in the dark, looking up at the stars as she lay in her bed, Rosalie didn't feel as sure and confident of her future as she had earlier in the day.

What if shed don't make it past the first cut in the audition? She would be so humiliated. She'd be letting other people down. Miss Young, of course, and her mother.

Rosalie choked up at the thought of her mother. As far back as Rosalie could remember, her mom had encouraged her to dance. But not in the same way that Jessica Stanley's mom had encouraged her, or like the mothers of other less talented kids who ended up at Emily Young's School of Dance and Theater Arts.

Rosalie's mom had never pushed her. In fact, she always urged Rosalie to slow down, not to work so hard, to go out with friends.

But Rosalie had always wanted only to dance, and her mother had helped her every step of the way. Now, with any luck at all, she'd be moving away to San Francisco and leaving her. She knew her mom would do just fine. She had lots of friends, and had even begun dating a bit recently.

But Rosalie's bond with her mother was strong, and Rosalie knew she was going to miss her mother's strong, reliable presence.

What would life be like without her mom? Without Vera's shoulder to cry on? Vera had been so sure Rosalie would have a whole new group of friends within a week. Rosalie doubted that. Besides, no one would be an old, true-blue friend like Vera.

She'd be heading into a brand-new life, full of new people, and the thought didn't excite her. It scared her. She'd never lived with other girls before. She had never even lived with a brother or sister.

Suddenly, except for the prospect of dancing morning, noon, and night, the future didn't look so bright at all.

Tears built behind Rosalie's eyes and she willed herself not to cry. Her mother would hear her and worry, and besides, she had cried enough today.

She stared out the window and told herself she was the luckiest girl in the world. She repeated it over and over until she almost believed it.

She pushed the curtain aside with her hand and picked out the biggest, brightest star she could find in the sky, then did something she hadn't done since she was ten and she and Vera and Sue Anne Crewdson had camped out in the Morelys' backyard.

She made a wish, praying with all her heart that her dream of being a real ballerina would someday come true, and make leaving home worth all this.

Just to be certain, she picked out a second star, and made another fervent wish for something smaller and more immediate.

"Please," she whispered into the dark, "let me get through that audition and just get the chance to study at SFBA."


End file.
